The familiar voice has me spinning around, and when I spot Webb at the back of the theater, my legs go weak with relief.
Webb.
He’s here.
“Noelle!” he orders. “Down! Now!”
The urgency in his voice—no, not just urgency,fear—breaks through my shock and sends me dropping to the floor. I flatten myself against the smooth boards just in time for another shot to ring out. This time, Dario howls.
“NO!” Dario shrieks. “No! This isn’t how the play ends!”
A storm of footsteps comes pounding towards me, and even though logic tells me it’s just Webb and his friends, I can’t stop a yelp of fear from escaping. Instinctively, I hunch into aprotective ball, wrapping my arms around my legs as I tremble in fear.
“Get the gun!” someone else orders. From the deep rumble of his voice, I think it might be Ace.
“Are there any other weapons?” an unfamiliar voice asks.
“Check for explosives,” Webb barks.
“On it,” Ace replies crisply.
“My knee!” Dario screeches. “My KNEE!”
“You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you in the fucking head,” Webb snarls. Coldly, he adds, “I still might.”
Then a hand lands on my shoulder.
Though my eyes are still squinched shut, I know who it is.
Beneath the salty tang of sweat, I catch the scent of lemon and soap.
“Noelle,” Webb croons. “Ah, sweetheart. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” As he gathers me into his arms and hugs me against his chest, his lips press briefly to the top of my head. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
The relief is so overwhelming, I burst into tears.
Burying my face in his neck, I cling to Webb as he carries me offstage. He jogs a short distance before stopping, then lowers me to the floor. He touches my cheek, the gentle rasp of his fingers achingly familiar. “Noelle, gorgeous, can you open your eyes for me?”
From behind us, Ace says, “Memphis. We need medical attention in here. Now. We’ve got at least two victims badly injured.”
I force my eyes open, even as my body resists. Webb’s worried gaze meets mine, and he asks, “Where are you hurt, sweetheart? Did he touch you? The gun—” His hands move across my body, searching for injury.
“I’m okay,” I whisper. “He didn’t—” I risk a glance at the stage. On it, Tyler is crouched beside Paul, holding a wad ofgauze against his stomach. Ace has a gun trained on Dario, who’s now restrained with his ankles and wrists hog-tied together. Dario’s clothes are soaked with blood, and he’s moaning, “You shot me. You fucking shot me. My leg. My arm. Ah, fuck, I’m going to lose my leg.”
“We can only hope,” Ace snaps. Then he glances to his left, where another man is tending to Hector. “Owl. How’s he look?”
Owl—whoever he is—shakes his head grimly. “Not great. He needs to get to a hospital right away.”
“Webb,” Ace calls over. “How’s Noelle? Is she hurt?”
“I don’t know,” Webb replies. Fear strains his voice. “I don’t see anything, but—” His gaze moves to my forehead. Alarm flares in his eyes. “Fuck. She has a bruise on her head. Possible concussion.”
“It’s not a concussion,” I tell him. “I just bumped my head.”
Webb brushes his finger across my forehead. “There’s a mark, sweetheart. If he hit you?—”
Now that I know Dario can’t hurt me, the worst of my fear is fading. “He didn’t hit me. I was dizzy from the drug he gave me, and I bumped my head on the wall.”
Rage suffuses Webb’s face. “The drugs—” The muscles in his jaw work while he tries to contain his anger. “Did he touch you? When you were?—”
